


floating downwards, free-fall fast

by transstevebucky



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Ice Skating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:55:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transstevebucky/pseuds/transstevebucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Louis thinks there’s something to be said about the fact he doesn’t immediately tell the boy he’s stunning. That he doesn’t just wax poetic about his eyes for a couple minutes, blowing warm air into his face. That the first thing out of his mouth isn’t “please marry me and have my children”. This is self-restraint of which he’s never exercised. He’s truly a new person.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“You have really warm collarbones.” Is what he says instead, which in retrospect, may be far worse.</i></p><p> </p><p>or; Louis didn’t mean to fall. Harry didn’t mean to catch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	floating downwards, free-fall fast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [being_a_fangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/being_a_fangirl/gifts).



> MADDY you made [this post](http://harryssugarplumbum.tumblr.com/post/135114974223/harryssugarplumbum-i-was-public-skating-and-im) and asked for someone to write it, so i figured i'd try and do something with it!!! i hope it's not disappointing,, i have no knowledge whatsoever of ice skating so i Do Not Recommend Doing This At Home or anything. 
> 
> the title's from a song called 'ice skating at night', and the fic's unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.

 

If anyone were to ask, Louis would say he didn’t ever mean to turn up at the ice rink.

Like, yes he promised his mum to check it out for the twins, and yes he dragged himself onto the tube at five in the evening, but he refuses to tell anyone that. He has a reputation to uphold, and he can’t be seen as a sap. (Even if, like, all of his friends have seen him with his family and how much he loves kids; he can’t let anyone in on the fact he’s just eighty percent mush).

He shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions at three am, alcohol still thundering through his system, music thumping under his feet. He’ll make Zayn lock his phone up next time he tries to answer it in the middle of a club. He shouldn’t let his mum talk him into stuff like this, shouldn’t let himself be this pliant.

And yet, here he is, nose frozen and fingers trembling, snow floating to the ground and actually sticking for the first time all year.

There’s something cruel about the universe, that he’s stood on two thin blades, when he could be at home, staring at the stars on his ceiling that have seen better days. He’d gotten them his second year of uni, and he’s long since left his course behind. The stars could do with nurturing. They would appreciate his companionship, he’s sure. He could leave right now, and it wouldn’t mean a thing except that he didn’t want to get frostbite. Because he’s not _scared_ of the ice. He just doesn’t want to skate.

“I don’t want to skate, Zayn,” he voices aloud, arms looped over the edge of the rink, legs wiggling uselessly behind him. He’s pretty sure someone to the left of them is filming him. He hopes the camera quality brings out his good side. That people on the internet see it and declare him the Most Beautiful Person of the Year.

“You just paid twelve quid for this, you’re skating.” Zayn makes it sound so _easy,_ not even staggering as he slides onto the ice. Louis didn’t know he was best friends with a fucking swan; he didn’t sign up for this.

“That money was from Niall when he lost our bet about getting pissed,” Louis begins, and Zayn stops before him, smirk tugging at the sides of his mouth. Louis hates him so much. Forget the years of friendship and unrelenting support, this has all been an elaborate plan to snap Zayn straight in two. It’d serve him right. “And I’m going to die if I skate, and it’ll all be on you.”

“You’ll die far quicker if you don’t actually try,” he begins, like some shitty philosopher pondering the meanings of the universe, “because I’ll snap your neck.”

If he didn’t look so serious, Louis might brush it off and giggle at him. As it is, he shakily pushes off from the side and stands up, knees trembling. So what, he’s a little terrified. There are _blades_ on his feet; falling is the equivalent of instant death, essentially. Which, okay, may be a bit dramatic, but he’s always been the best at that.

“They can smell your fear.” Zayn grins, before skating out of the way, and therefore out of Louis’s range. When they get off of this godforsaken death trap, Louis is going to shave all of his hair off. See if he likes that.

He slowly shuffles, instead, trying to feel comfortable balancing only on two tiny bits of metal. He doubts anyone could actually enjoy this. He’s pretty sure that this is what hell is. He can’t believe he stopped watching reruns of The Simpsons for this.

It’s easier, after a while, even with one hand still clenched around the outer rail, breaths coming out in sharp puffs. Zayn’s drifted off somewhere, probably in the middle of a clump of people that he can see in his peripheral vision, skating like an expert whilst Louis feels like a freshly hatched penguin. At least he’s keeping his squawks of fear inside, or something.

The view’s gorgeous, though, he’ll admit that. With the snow falling around him and the Christmas lights lining the streets, it looks like something out of a fairy tale. He’s always liked that about the holidays –the fact it all looks perfect, pristine and bright. (His mum once told him that, when he was younger, he’d thought the lights were for his birthday. He maybe, possibly, still lets himself believe that.)

He comes to a stop halfway down the rink, trying to work up enough courage to let go, ignoring the fact he can feel eyes on his back, because an audience isn’t something he wants right now. He just wants to struggle with skating in _peace_ , thanks very much.

He finally does it, and he doesn’t die. He’s a professional. He could do this for years to come. He could enter the Olympics if he wanted to. This is incredible. At some point in the near future, there are going to be crowds screaming out his name, and he’ll be able to buy his family everything they’ve ever needed. He’s never felt more alive.

It’s shaky, and he’s nervous, but he’s finally _moving,_ knees twitching and nose wrinkling the further he branches out from the safety of the side. And, actually, maybe there’s something calming about it. About the way it’s so smooth underfoot (underblade?), the way it’s like he’s floating. It’s kind of nice. Maybe he overreacted before, and this is all manoeuvrable and fun, an actual night out instead of a chore. Maybe it could become a routine, even.

And that is, predictably, when it all goes to horseshit.

He moves too fast, body leaning forwards precariously, eyes pointed at the ground, and he doesn’t realise there’s someone ten feet in front of him until it’s almost too late. The moment before they smash into each other is so filled with horror and mortification he can feel his heart slipping through his ribs.

There’s a pair of startled green eyes, and then hands clenching at his waist as he manages to land with his head planted between the person’s collarbones. He’ll deny the tiny whimper he breathes out until the day he dies.

“I won’t let you fall,” the voice says, which is the precise moment that Louis decides he’s dead and has, actually, ascended to heaven. It’s too hoarse, thick and _Northern,_ like he hasn’t heard in two years outside of skype calls with his mum and 2am conversations with Zayn. “I won’t let you fall.”

Louis wraps his arms around their middle, still a little bit terrified, legs trembling too hard to stay completely still, and they’re _still_ chanting “won’t let you go” like out of some shitty Titanic remake. Louis’s life has turned from a horror movie to a rom com in less than five minutes, and he doesn’t know if he hates it.

When he finally feels steady enough, he’s beyond tempted to keep his forehead nestled between the collarbones. They’re warm, soaking through the multiple layers of wool and cotton, and if he stays here he doesn’t have to look the person straight in the eye, which seems like a good enough plan as any to him.

He doesn’t. He glances up, because he’s brave, and can conquer the world.

Louis thinks there’s something to be said about the fact he doesn’t immediately tell the boy he’s stunning. That he doesn’t just wax poetic about his eyes for a couple minutes, blowing warm air into his face. That the first thing out of his mouth isn’t “please marry me and have my children”. This is self-restraint of which he’s never exercised. He’s truly a new person.

“You have really warm collarbones.” Is what he says instead, which in retrospect, may be far worse.

“You’ve got really pretty eyes,” he says, and Louis barely manages to stop himself from giggling, because he giggles now. Jesus Christ, it’s not like Louis’s never seen anyone gorgeous before. He’s got Zayn as a best mate. But. This is a little different, he supposes.

“I’m Louis, by the way.” He mutters, trying to tug away from the other guy’s arms, because as much as he likes it, it’s not really socially respectable to be pressed against someone you don’t know. Whether they saved your neck or not.

“Harry,” there’s a grin twisting at the edge of his mouth as he says it, “d’you wanna get a coffee?”

_______________

There’s something magical, Louis thinks, about the way that the lights of the tiny café they find reflect off of Harry’s cheeks. He doesn’t voice it aloud (he’s said enough foolish bullshit today), but Harry just _suits_ the atmosphere, blending into the background like he’s always been part of the greater tapestry. He looks like human art, bending over the counter to ask for a hot chocolate, nose still pink from the chill outside.

Louis settles himself into a booth tucked into the corner, mostly because it’s comfy but also because his thigh’s pressed against the thrumming radiator this way. (Also, maybe, because the lights face them this way, and he wants to see the way Harry glows. But he won’t say that out loud.)

Whilst he’s waiting for Harry to return, he slides his phone out of his pocket and sends a quick text to Zayn.

_bro im on a date so don’t wait up B)_

**_I was this close to calling your mum I’m going to wring your neck in your sleep._ **

And then, a minute later after that one comes through, is the addition **_love you too._** Louis loves Zayn, he truly does. He’s got such a good best mate. He should really start shopping for his Christmas present soon; he’s put it off since October, because getting presents for Zayn is _difficult_ and he can’t be second best out of their friends two years running.

“You look lost in thought,” Harry says, stuffing his gloves into his coat pocket and wrapping his fingers around a mug of hot chocolate, “almost as bad as when you almost killed us both on that rink.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him, “you’re the one who pulled a Kate Winslet.”

It draws a laugh out of Harry, this loud hysterical cackle that sounds simultaneously out of place and completely at home in the deserted café, and the look on his face when he leans his head back is enough to turn Louis’s chest to smoke. It’s just… so much, not knowing Harry and yet feeling a weird bond under his skin, itching at him to _get_ to know him, and.

There’s kind of one way to do that, really, and he’s got nothing to lose in the process. (Which is his favourite kind of gambling.)

“Are you in uni?” There’s a bit of cream stuck to Harry’s lip, and Louis doesn’t point it out because it’s endearing. Like a kitten who’s trying to persuade you to feed them.

“I’m not, actually,” Harry grins, thumbing the cream off his mouth like he knew, “could never really get into the academic side of anything. I’m the manager of a bakery in town, though, so I’ve got something going for me. What about you?” His eyes sparkle, like he’s proud of himself, and Louis has to look down at his hands on the table he’s so endeared by it.

The thing is, he’s not really got anything that he’s that into, like Harry so obviously is about baking. Zayn’s got his drama classes, and Niall’s got his group of so-called ‘delinquent’ kids that he never stops talking about, and Louis’s got a degree in the arts and peeling stars on his bedroom ceiling. It seems like a metaphor for his life, or something. Stars that are meant to glow in the dark but just make everything seem dimmer and less important.

But looking at Harry, who’s passionate and vibrant, it’s like that doesn’t matter. That it doesn’t matter he’s not in love with anything right now, because he’s a person and that’s enough. It says a lot about who Harry is as a person, probably, that just by looking at him Louis feels at home for the first time in three years.

“I finished uni last year, and I haven’t done anything since,” he responds, and the look in Harry’s eyes after he says it tells him that he knows what he means.

It’s easy, after that, sitting under the fairy lights strung across the ceiling, talking softly across the table, sharing facts and jokes and making fun of politicians. Louis slides his phone number into Harry’s number before they stumble out the door, and the look on his face is enough to make his tummy flutter.

_______________

The text message that wakes him up the next morning just tells him that he needs to ‘dress warm and come with spare change’, which would sound ominous except for the fact he’s completely up for it. Which, considering he only met Harry yesterday, should be concerning, but it isn’t. Harry just gives off the vibe of coming home, and Louis needs more of it, sue him.

He responds with a thumbs up emoji, yells for Zayn that he’s going out, and is halfway down the street before Harry’s even replied. A fine art.

Harry’s just texted him an address of some shop not far from he and Zayn’s flat, so he slowly makes his way through the snow, yanking his hood down until it’s almost covering his eyes. Zayn would say it’s overreacting, but Zayn’s the same person who got kicked out of sixth form for insisting Plato was a cyborg, so what the fuck does he know?

The shop is tiny, cramped and full of Christmas trinkets, and it’s so _Harry_ it feels a little like he’s slipped into a different dimension. Like he’s in Harry’s head.

“I’m over here,” Harry calls, and Louis spots the top of his curls over one of the stacks of board games he doesn’t think he’s ever heard of. “I was thinking of finding something for my sister, and I know you said you needed something sentimental for your mate, so.”

He looks nervous, hands wringing together and nose wrinkled, like he’s going to take the offer back at any sign of unease from Louis. Which would be sweet, if not for the fact Louis’s just kind of amazed that he was listening when he’d mentioned, offhand, that Zayn was notoriously hard to shop for.

It feels like some hint at permanence, at a longer bond than a couple days in town together. Like this could mean something bigger than that, than both of them put together.

It’s a little bit breath taking, if he’s going to be honest.

“Um,” he begins, because he’s a master of words, “yeah, I do, thanks. This is. Really nice, actually.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but his mouth stretches into a tiny grin that Louis wants to poke with all of his being. He restrains himself, because he’s a civilized human being and that’s a bit much, even for him.

They wander around the shop, Louis just taking everything in and revelling in the dusty scent of antiques and candlewax, Harry pointing out different types of pieces of art, despite the fact he clearly doesn’t know anything about it. It’s cute. Harry’s cute. And it’s _easy_ , above everything else, it’s so fucking easy to envision a future like this, trailing after each other through shops and streets, giggling at vulgar books set on the shelves.

It’s a while before Louis finds anything that he wants, but when he does he startles so hard he grabs Harry’s wrist to keep himself steady.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he drawls, and Louis just rolls his eyes before tugging his arm to his side, and pointing out the gift he wants.

It’s a miniature jukebox, wooden with gold accents, and it’s exactly the type of thing Zayn would cry at. Which is exactly what Louis is going for, so it’s perfect.

“It’s sick,” Harry murmurs, and then turns around suddenly, that same spark in his eye from yesterday. “You know what, buy that and wait outside. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Louis’s about to protest, but Harry’s already weaving his way through the narrow aisles to the back of the shop, so he grabs the jukebox and totters over to the till.

He walks out five minutes later with it tucked into his coat, and stands with his back pressed against the shop window, trying to figure out what Harry could have wanted that he couldn’t see him buying. He focuses on the chill instead, on the icy ache of his cheeks and the fact he’s definitely got chapped lips.

There’s a jangle of a bell beside him, and then Harry’s there, leaning into his space, grin so wide that it looks like it hurts. Jesus, he really is gorgeous.

“I got you something.” He states, and he looks so excited that it fizzes through Louis’s chest too.

“Can I have it?” He asks, tentative, because he’s holding the bag between his fingers pretty tight, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to get it any time soon.

“On one condition,” he begins, cheeks flushing pink, “you go on a little walk with me, and. Um. Maybe? Hold my hand whilst we do it? If you’re okay with that.”

Louis blinks, slow and steady, before saying, “I’m more than okay with that. Lead the way.”

He does. He leads them along some tiny path packed with snow, bag rattling in his hand, before he slowly extends his fingers out, like an offering. Louis takes it without blinking, and Harry grins so big he turns his face to the side. It doesn’t hide anything, but it makes his chest warm, so he guesses that’s enough.

It’s a couple of minutes before Harry stops them, and grins slowly before extending the bag out for Louis to grab.

He opens it up, and has to bite his lip before he says anything. Because. There’s a snow globe inside, the kind Louis’d talked about always wanting last night, a tiny snowman and a Christmas tree. And he hadn’t expected anything, let alone for Harry to be so edgy about it, rocking back and forth and ruffling his hair.

“It’s just, kind of. I don’t know, maybe a way of asking if you’d like to go out with me some time?” His voice is pitchy, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask.

And that’s just ridiculous, because of course he’s allowed to ask. It’s what he’s been wanting him to ask since yesterday evening, when he’d almost snapped his own neck on the ice.

He just holds his hand out in response. He’s pretty sure that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://arohug.tumblr.com)||[rebloggable fic post](http://arohug.tumblr.com/post/135233556036/floating-downwards-free-fall-fast-harrylouis)
> 
> any comments/kudos are welcome !!


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